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"He was never particularly religious, but in that moment he called upon Ilmater to bear witness to an unshakable oath upon which he would judge the very worth of his soul: that he would protect his Sufferer until his last dying breath."
Thank you for the tag @woundedsoul12, for the double tags: @bladesingerlily & @optimisticgrey, for the uno-reverses: @lucretiouswept, @gortashsrighthand, & @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream, and finally for both a tag & an uno-reverse: @litsenn! 🫶
I love you guys. 🫠
I jumped back into Mara's canon universe to write a bit of the story between her and Gale that I had planned long ago, but I hadn't sat with and fully considered how it might change their romance arc in Act 3.
It will change a bit, and I think I might like it better.
This scene takes place between Act 2 & 3. It's before the Emperor's mind flayer reveal, but after the scene when Mara made Minthara apologize to Kar'niss.
(That fun little scene was nonsensically too hot for tumblr, as I've discovered it cannot be found in any searches now. Exceedingly lame of you, hellsite. 🙄)
TW: a wizard broods and reflects with a candor he reserves for his internal monologue; mention of Durge things (including violence & murder, etc), flicks my gaze in the direction of dark Gale
Gale had long since finished studying his spellbook and had begun perusing a tome on the history of the Baldurian Parliament of Peers when he watched Mara lead Kar'niss away from the tents toward the abandoned barn. He released an irritated sigh, knowing she would return exhausted, fresh punctures dotting her wrist or her neck.
They must find a better way to feed the drider.
Fresh blood and fresh meat was required every few days or Kar'niss's hold on reality began to recede, tenuous as it was to begin with. His entire body would be wracked with pain, he would grow weak and listless, and according to Halsin, a sort of strange decay would permeate him, but it was unrelated to the shadow curse.
His symptoms were disturbingly similar to Gale's own when the orb had gone too long between consuming artifacts. Minthara had said a drider's existence was intended to serve Lolth, even in failure, that the cutthroat ambition the goddess expected of drow had been divinely manifested in a drider's constant need to hunt and feed on anything weak enough to fall to them. Violence and bloodlust were integral to their survival.
If Gale had known in advance what Mara would put herself through to save Kar'niss, to keep him alive, he might have refused to cleanse him of the shadow curse. Ah… who was he trying to fool? He couldn't have denied her. Especially not when he could practically see her heart breaking for a person who had been used and discarded by not one god, but two.
It was different from her sympathy for Gale, however.
Kar'niss was angry, aggressive and terribly lost, but there was something… childlike about him. That, more than anything, had been what seemed to resonate with Mara. There had been other clues along their journey. Her kindness toward the tiefling children, her harsh opinion of Mayrina for dealing with Ethel, and the first time her strange ability to control a magic even Gale did not fully comprehend had emerged when she bound Halsin with shadows rather than allow him to harm goblin children in his rage. It was a visceral, instant reaction. One that he believed must have its roots in a very deep wound. She was a breath away from ending the very druid who might have been their salvation, and she was not twitching, not mired in bloodlust, she was entirely herself.
All Mara said about it at the time was that they knew it was wrong to harm children, that there was no such thing as a creature that was born to deserve only death, and that the notion of ontological evil was a sickening excuse used to justify war and to sanctify genocide. It was a well-reasoned, passionate delivery, as usual, but there was something more in her eyes. Something, perhaps, that only Gale was close enough to her to notice. It was pain.
Later, when he'd asked her about it, she'd confirmed what he'd seen, but she couldn't remember why she felt that way. That moment, the way she talked to Shadowheart about her treatment at the hands of her Sharran guardians, and how she was with Kar'niss had made Gale relatively certain his suspicion was correct even before he knew: Mara was a mother.
He had been uncertain whether her child, or children, waited for her in Baldur's Gate or if she had lost them. He had hoped they were still alive, that there would be others in her life who were as proud of her as he was. It was no easy thing, fighting what lived within her.
The truth that Mara learned only days before in the depths of the mind flayer colony… had been a terrible blow. She was a mother, and she had slain her child. A different woman than the one he knew had committed that terrible deed. It wasn't murder; she had done it to save her own life. Still, she would not, could not, forgive herself for it.
Extenuating circumstances did not wash the blood from her hands, nor did they change whose hands had ended that life.
A proud fool desperate to distance themself from their own mortal frailty would have condemned her, called her evil, but he could not. The particular bias of his love for her was, in fact, quite irrelevant to that point.
Much to his chagrin, Gale knew from direct experience that he was not up to the task of resisting the force which occupied her. His attempt to save Mara from something in the Underdark had backfired quite spectacularly.
He had tasted her darkness, and it was… delicious, even in its foulness. It had ignited the part of him that wished to prove his every doubter wrong, to regain everything he had lost and more. To exceed it.
In terrifying dreams, it had offered to carve a path to greatness through the blood and bones of his enemies, and even though its methods flew in the face of his beliefs, the end it had promised would allow him to undo all the wrong he'd done to get there. He should have seen through it. He should have known better. But he didn't.
It was not merely tempting; it was irresistible.
To him.
But not to her.
Even with no idea who or what she was, she refused to indulge the monster within. Once she knew it could overwhelm her, she had barricaded her mind against it. She'd told him whenever it surged in her thoughts, and on those nights, everyone had taken turns keeping watch, omitting Mara from the rotation until she felt sure of her own mind once again. After they'd reached the Shadow-Cursed Lands, her Urge had not simply pushed her towards slaying Isobel, her despicable nighttime visitor had issued an order. One she'd refused. Watches continued for days afterward, and nothing happened.
At their final rest before joining the battle against Ketheric Thorm, after releasing Dame Aylin, Mara had taken first watch to let Shadowheart rest after what Shar had put her through. The butler had come again, and demanded Gale's life in retribution. Again, she had denied the fiend. She roused him from sleep and told him what she could before she passed out.
No one had died that night.
Gale could not say the same of his own grapple with a mere fraction of Mara's Urge...
He had not felt the yoke in lieu of his own hubris. He did not understand that it was taking far more than it gave, that it would use him up and he'd never gain the power to do what he wished with it. It would eat away every part of him that had desires of its own. He would have become no more than a magical blade in the hand of a horror beyond his worst nightmares if not for her. And for Elminster.
Gale had always considered himself a singular intellect, a man destined for greatness, one whose natural gifts and mastery foretold a monumental future. His certainty of that had done violence to his life on every level. Yet… when offered a shortcut, again he'd taken it, with no regard for the consequences.
He tore his gaze away from the barn and glanced across the campsite at Astarion. Eyes closed, the vampire spawn reclined against Halsin's chest as the druid's strong thumbs expertly worked the tension out of the back of his neck.
Sometimes, Gale could still smell his fluffy white hair burning.
A nice, cheeky uno-reverse for everyone 😏... and some no pressure tags for: @defira85, @dr4gonwriter, @missfortunetherogue, @cinder-rellish181, @ele-millennial-weirdo & @carnivaley.
[Note: If anyone thinks Gale would be able to resist the Urge with zero prior experience, I refer them to the 180° turn in his view of mortal life--which emerges when he's on the most self-interested branch of his god path. When everything Mystra denied him is at his fingertips, he loses the plot entirely. Envy can make even the best people behave like pieces of shit.]
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Back at work tomorrow and going through the incomparable joy of meds increased - hope I'll still be able to write. Tagged by @optimisticgrey and @deianestormborn (you're both reverse tagged!) - using this for both a self-indulgent snippet (the Harpers don't get an ingame earful for their attempt to surrender to Ketheric, fixing that) and a self-indulgent photo of my blorbos just looking dramatic in the nice light.
“My dear, you usually inspire in me a renewed appreciation for life,” Astarion sighed. “At present, however, a stake through the ribs hardly sounds like the worst of possible fates.”
“All right, all right, don’t start falling apart on me now.” Ethery gave his arm a reassuring pat. “We still have to find out what was running around those ruins the scout mentioned. Imagine if nobody was there at all and the poor fool merely breathed in something unfortunate. Not that I can blame anyone for reaching for a bottle in these lands. The temptation must be considerable.”
“If one of my scouts ever decides to seek courage in a flask, they will not enjoy the consequences.” Jaheira’s voice came from behind them. She had approached quietly enough to overhear every word. “They know that perfectly well. Any Harper foolish enough to leave the inn drunk would find themselves stripped of rank before the day was out. Our task is difficult enough without adding carelessness to the list. Better unpleasant duties in company than facing these lands alone.”
Halsin’s head snapped up - Ethery felt the change before he spoke. A moment earlier he had been staring at the ground, now his gaze was fixed on Jaheira. The silver in his eyes darkened into blue.
“Would you truly cast someone out for taking a swallow to steady their nerves?”
His voice remained calm and controlled, which somehow made it sound even more dangerous. The question appeared to catch Jaheira off guard. She stood silent for several moments before answering.
“I don’t know, Halsin,” she said at last, slowly and quietly. “I honestly don’t know what I would do if one of my rangers found himself in that position. But I know this much: nowhere is it more important to understand the risks than here. A single mistake can mean death. Or worse.”
She folded her arms.
“What if a drunken ranger drops their torch? What if they step into the shadows for even a moment? What if they stumble into a ravine and break a leg? Most likely they die - and take the rest of their patrol with them. Better they fear me than underestimate this place and walk willingly into their own graves.”
“Do many of them underestimate it?”
Some of the edge left Halsin’s voice. Only a little.
“Fortunately, I haven’t had to find out,” Jaheira replied. “And I hope I never do.”
She raised her head and met his eyes. Neither of them looked away. For several long seconds they stood still and silent.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jaheira said at last. “And I know what you’re remembering.”
Her voice had become very quiet.
“The druids of the Emerald Grove carrying our wounded toward the mountain pass as bears and panthers while we retreated along the road to Baldur’s Gate after our attempt to surrender. The curse preventing us from regrouping. It was you, not anyone else, who led the survivors to safety. Some of them were Harpers left behind by their own command.” She swallowed. “I have no defence for that. No excuse.”
A pause.
“If the decision had been mine...” She stopped herself but never broke eye contact. “If the decision had been mine, it would have been different.”
She turned away and wrapped her arms around herself. For one strange moment she reminded Ethery of Arabella. Then she walked back toward the inn. Halsin didn’t follow. Didn’t call after her. A few moments later he lowered his head heavily, as though the weight of the last hundred years had suddenly settled on his shoulders once more.
“This may be a terrible time to ask,” Ethery said quietly, “but what was she talking about?”
For a long while he said nothing. The silence stretched so long that Ethery began to think he might not answer at all.
“When we fought Ketheric Thorm,” Halsin said at last, “the Harpers attempted to surrender shortly before the battle turned.” His voice was flat. Distant. “Ketheric refused to accept it.”
Since this is my first, I think maybe I’ll use it as a chance to introduce my OC.
Tumblr, meet Eliwyn Torleth!
Race: Sun elf
Birthday: Alturiak 1373 DR
Class: Cleric
Background: Acolyte
Occupation: Cleric of Lathander
Eliwyn’s Bio:
Eliwyn was born the fourth child to Eliseth and Annwyl Torleth shortly after The Retreat. The Torleths arrived in Baldur’s Gate with the intention of embarking for Evermeet from Grey Harbor. But a last minute change of heart by her father resulted in the family dividing. The eldest Torleth girls left with their husbands and children for the secluded elven isle. Eliseth, Annwyl, and their son Taran stayed behind. Eliwyn was born two years later.
Her father, a member of the Iyrandrii and a former guard of that isolated realm, joined The Watch of the Upper City. The oversar at the time took notice of Eliseth’s skill. As he had no successor, he declared Eliseth as such and a few years later Eliseth took over as one of the generals of The Watch.
Eliwyn’s younger decades in Baldur’s Gate were happy ones. Her later years, however, were marred by her first experience with loss. Growing up among humans meant that, all too soon, her friends passed on.
It was during this time, perhaps the darkest in her life at that point, that she threw herself into her faith. She had been taught of both the elven and Faerûnian pantheons, but ultimately chose to become a follower of Lathander, like her father. After saying goodbye to the last of her first friends she decided to join Lathander’s clergy. She worked and worshipped as a Dawn Priest at The Rose Portal under the various Dawnmasters who served as rectors.
Not long after turning one hundred, Eliwyn’s parents determined she had been in Baldur’s Gate for too long. They were concerned about the impact that witnessing several generations of humans come and go was having on her. So, with the help of Dawnmaster Malcolm, Eliwyn sent a letter to The Spires of the Morning in Waterdeep stating her desire to become a Dawnbringer, a speciality priest of Lathander.
On the fourteenth of Tarsakh, 1485 DR she arrived on the bustling and somewhat disorienting streets of Waterdeep.
This is where her story truly begins and continues in my fic Threads of Fate!
***
The absolute gentlest of tags here, seeing as I am a baby Tumblr and my playground is still quite empty. If you’ve already been tagged for this don’t mind me! @alliskit, @thesanguinesonnet, @bladesingerlily, here is your excuse to self-indulge if you’d like one!
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Tagged by the lovely @gortashsrighthand @optimisticgrey @tynithia (Wip Friday) and @cinder-rellish181 (Wip Wednesday) Tagging all of you back!!! <3<3<3
Just a lil snip from Ch. 3 of my "odd creature" (which I'm deeply ambivalent towards) Night Blooming Jasmine
"Maybe there are better ways to keep darkness at bay," she whispered, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.
Torn between hope and apprehension, desire and vague discomfort, Gale pulled her closer, his fingers gliding down her half-clothed spine, before pausing at the small of her back, right above the base of her tail.
"Are you sure you want this?" he politely inquired, deliberately ignoring his own, painful need. "The recent events left you exhausted and emotionally drained," he added, "and there is no need to push yourself like this just to reassure me that everything is fine. Once we're home, we'll have all the time in the world, and I'm perfectly willing to wait until you feel like yourself again. There is no reason to hurry. Not after everything you've been through. Your emotions and needs will always come first to me," he concluded, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder.
"I know," she murmured, "but that's exactly the reason why your loving presence is such an invaluable treasure to me. I need your help to wake up from this daze threatening to swallow me whole. I need your gentle touch to chase all these visions away. I need you to remind me that I'm still alive. Please".
First two chapters of the "thing" here (I did not share ch. 2 because I'm in a violent love-hate relationship with it, sorry!) 😬😅
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Gentle tags also for @arlynx @carnivaley @ghost-of-a-dream-girl @aryriddle @saylofwaterdeep and any of my beloved writer moots who has a wip to share
The Price of a Sunset: The first-born. I wasn't sure if I was going to be a good parent (aka writer of fics), but I jumped in anyway to assuage the pain of losing a job I loved and to ensure I continued to practice and hone my craft well away from AI and its little tendrils creeping their way into everything. I made a lot of mistakes and there are many things I'd do differently, but I'm still proud of how it turned out, and I can never seem to fully quit Alyss and Gale - they are my OTP.
The Worldweaver: My middle child. It's not the type of fic most want to read, but it was important to me to let Alyss and Gale start their true story and earn their ending as legends, adventurers, and true loves. It was also important to me to give Gale closure from Mystra without forcing him to give up the status he had fairly earned and would likely need to survive a life with Alyss. Also, I just wanted to write it and I had fun doing it.
To Err Divine: My rebellious child. The one that I didn't exactly choose to bear, so much as it insisted on being born. Much more high-maintenance than its older siblings and raising it to maturity is going to take much longer than I anticipated. I can't help but love it, even when it's giving me a great deal of trouble, and especially when it's bringing me down with its high level of angst and an extremely long stretch of darkness in the middle.
Further Research Required: My youngest child and the one that brings me joy when life with its older sibling grows emotional and dark. If To Err Divine is my emo adolescent, this one is my sunny little toddler that's always up for a little bit of fun, and maybe a tiny bit of mischief.
Softly tagging @tynithia, @fireflyeyes, @amuletspore, @asorceresswrites - only if you're interested!
Thanks @thesanguinesonnet - love these little activities :)
Some questions to get to know me. No pressure tags to: @glitterandmoondustofficial, @87000beesinapersonsuit, @optimisticgrey, @alliskit, @lolthwoven, @rdekarios, @unovafarm, @tynithia (if you haven't done this and want to, otherwise feel free to ignore).
1. What’s a small BG3 detail that you always notice and love?
The views. I love to get up high and look all around. The view from Ramazith's tower is a good one.
2. What’s one piece of reference material you’re currently obsessed with?
Not for BG3, but I have an original fiction I've been working on for ages. It takes place in an alternate version of England, so I've spent an inordinate amount of time studying the features of wool market towns, abbey ruins, and Anglo-Saxon geographical terms.
3. Share a snippet or visual from your current project that you’re quietly proud of.
Writing for BG3 is the first time I've written combat. I find it really challenging, but my "in" has been to show the relationships between the characters in how they fight together.
He whipped around and tried to sidestep, but the creature surged forward and a jet of high-pressure water caught him across the chest, sending him staggering backward. A crushing tightness seized his chest, followed immediately by sharp pain. He tried to breathe but couldn't get enough air, and there was a disturbing grinding in his side as he stumbled away from the myrmidon.
Radiant heat warmed his face as the fire myrmidon, freed from the ice, turned toward him as well, its flames building. He raised a shaking hand—trying to ignore the stabbing in his side as magic gathered—but his fingers felt clumsy and the words wouldn't come.
Wren appeared between him and the advancing elementals. Her hands came up and a shimmering barrier of force snapped into place. The fire myrmidon's flames crashed against it harmlessly.
She spoke a healing word that did nothing. "Gods be damned," she swore, in furious, impotent frustration. "Potion," she ordered tersely, as more bolts sprang from her sphere to strike at the myrmidons. "Now."
He fumbled for the pouch at his belt, each small movement sending lances of pain up his sides. After a minor eternity, he managed to find the right vial, pull it out, and drink it. The cold burn swept through him, healing the worst of the damage. He gasped at the ruthless speed of it, missing the feel of Wren's hands on him as his body knit itself back together.
He looked up to find her shield beginning to crumble under the myrmidons' assault. "Tempestas!" His voice rang out, strong again. As his hands began to work—their function fully restored—he took command of the winds streaming in through the demolished window and drove the myrmidons back toward the walls.
Wren turned toward Lorroakan, her sparks snapping, and her wind caught Gale's, whipping around them both. She drew two more whirlstars from her belt and sent them flying at the wizard. One sank into his chest, another into his shoulder. He shrieked in fury, blood spreading in dark stains across his gaudy robes.
The whirlstars exploded on impact. One with a crack of thunder that made Lorroakan stumble, the other with a brilliant flash of lightning that left scorch marks across his flesh. He screamed again, more in rage than pain, and his staff came up.
"Arde!"
A massive fireball erupted from the staff's tip, streaking toward them both. With a quick set of gestures and a cry, Gale's shield spell flared to life and deflected the worst of the blast. Heat washed over them, singeing hair and cloth, but did no real harm.
Cast with me, he sent, and felt Wren's immediate acknowledgement along with a fierce delight in fighting at his side. She called her lightning to her while Gale gathered his winds. Their magic recognized each other, coming together like dancers who'd practiced this routine a thousand times.
4. What’s something you’re looking forward to creating or finishing soon?
My "Tale of Three Gales" one-shot! It's been pure fun to work on, but I'm looking forward to getting it finished and getting it posted.
5. What’s a fun or silly tradition you have with your OCs/Tavs?
Hmm, I'm not sure if I have any traditions, but both of my BG3 OCs were played before photo mode existed, so I've been having fun going back and doing photo shoots with them. In particular with Wren - I deleted her save, so I've been recreating her story with pictures. I don't use any of the fancy photo mode mods, so my images are middling at best, but I have fun getting creative with the tools I have.
6. What’s a BG3 NPC you’d love to see in a completely different outfit or setting?
I'd love to see a cowboy Gale, his look fits it so well, while his personality absolutely does not. Also Gortash is made to be an early 2000s LA guy in a small band that plays clubs on Sunset and thinks that makes him maximally desirable.
7. What is a BG3 collab project that you would want to do?
Honestly, any! I love to collab, so if anyone has something they really want to do, all you gotta do is let me know.
8. What’s a tiny headcanon or detail you’ve added to your Tav/OC that brings you joy?
For Alyss: I think it's her mischief and her love of teasing. I just have so much fun writing her and Gale's more lighthearted scenes and coming up with different ways for her to tease Gale.
For Wren: It's the fact that she's a woman of few words most of the time. It's honestly relaxing (especially as a Gale writer) to write dialogue that's terse and plain-spoken.
9. What is something you want your followers to know about you?
This is my first time writing fan fiction, and being part of a community like this. I have loved getting to know everyone's OCs, stories, and art. Talking to y'all and seeing how you work has been really inspiring to me. Thanks for being such a supportive and welcoming community!
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collected WIP tags from @kt-catt @gloura @rdekarios @thesanguinesonnet and a reverse tag from @arlynx
Thank you, dears! Uno reverse for all of you 🫶
I am a bit behind on stuff, life has been a lot. Please poke me if I missed a tag!
I ate the stew because my body required nourishment.
I wasn't hungry but I had begun to understand that meals served purposes beyond merely sustaining the body. Sharing food was an act of companionship, a ritual of closeness people performed almost instinctively. It mattered to them, and increasingly, that meant it mattered to me.
The wizard had spent a surprising amount of time preparing the stew and appeared even more invested in everyone's reaction to it than strictly necessary. He informed us—twice—that it was based upon a family recipe, though circumstances had forced him to substitute several of the original spices. He spoke of this as though it were a tragedy of moderate significance.
I nodded dutifully, thanked him for the meal, and refrained from mentioning that the combination of rosemary and thyme reminded me vaguely of bathwater. Some observations are best kept private.
Besides, he was so pleased with himself that I lacked the heart to diminish it.
After dinner, I gathered the dishes and carried them to the stream.
The water was wonderfully cold. The summer air still lingered warmly around camp, but the stream flowed down from higher ground and carried with it a pleasant chill that numbed my fingers as I worked. I knelt by the bank, cleaning bowls and spoons while the sounds of conversation drifted faintly from the fire behind me.
And, despite my best efforts, my thoughts wandered once more to the lute. The instrument rested in my tent, yet I found my gaze seeking it whenever the opportunity arose. Even now, separated from it by distance and canvas, I was thinking about it again.
The fascination annoyed me. Something about that lute lingered. Not insistently or aggressively, simply present, like a half-forgotten thought refusing to disappear entirely no matter how often I turned my attention elsewhere.
I rinsed the final bowl, set it aside to dry, and stared into the water for a moment.
Perhaps there was magic involved. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, I found myself increasingly curious in a way I could neither explain nor dismiss.
The reality was simple enough: we might die tomorrow.
At that point in our journey, death felt less like a distant possibility and more like a scheduling conflict we were attempting to postpone. We carried mind flayer parasites behind our eyes. We had no cure, no answers, and only the increasingly fragile hope that one existed somewhere ahead of us. For all I knew, I might transform during the night, and whatever remained of me by morning would have very little interest in lutes.
Under those circumstances, there seemed little reason to ignore a mystery simply because it was small.
I placed the cleaned bowls into the crate we used for storage and rose to my feet.
The lute had occupied my thoughts all evening, it seemed only fair that I finally discover why.
And if the answer proved disappointing—well. There were certainly worse ways to spend what might potentially be one's final night as oneself.
I lowered myself onto a log someone had thoughtfully placed near the fire and began to tune.
The instrument was out of alignment, each string a little too sharp or too flat, as though it had been neglected for some time. I closed my eyes and leaned in, adjusting by feel more than thought. It came as naturally as breathing, familiar in a way I could not yet account for or even understand.
Around me, the camp remained still, no one spoke.
Only the fire did—its steady crackle, the occasional shift of embers—accompanied by the distant sounds of night settling into itself.
I heard movement at the edges of perception. Fabric brushing, careful footsteps, the soft clink of dishes being set aside with exaggerated caution. They were trying not to disturb me.
It was… unnecessary and oddly considerate.
When I was finally satisfied with the tuning, I rolled my shoulders back, stretching my neck until it gave a sharp, unceremonious crack. A few heads turned at the sound.
I did not care.
My fingers found the strings before any conscious thought could intervene and the first melody arrived without invitation. Not chosen or constructed, simply remembered, as though my hands had been waiting for permission my mind had not yet given.
The lute felt familiar beneath my fingers in a way that unsettled me. Not because I remembered it, but because I did not. Every movement came naturally, every adjustment of my hands instinctive, yet I could not recall learning any of it. There was no memory attached to the knowledge.
I plucked a few strings, listening to the notes ring through the evening air. A simple melody followed, my fingers finding it without instruction or conscious thought. The motions felt as natural as breathing.
And then did I open my mouth.
Singing, too, was not a decision.
It simply… happened.
I tested it cautiously at first.
I had not intended to. My mouth simply opened as the melody unfolded beneath my fingers, words rising unbidden from somewhere buried deeper than memory. A soft ballad emerged, gentle and melancholic, carrying the sort of longing that seemed older than I was. I could not recall where I had learned it. I could not remember hearing it before.
Yet I knew every word.
Every note.
Every pause.
The realization stole my breath for a heartbeat.
My voice carried effortlessly, rich and clear in a way that startled me. It was not merely pleasant. It possessed weight, presence. The sort of voice that naturally drew attention without ever demanding it, capable of filling a room not through volume but through simple certainty.
I felt it immediately. Not in my throat or my lungs, but in my soul.
The sensation struck with such force that my hands nearly faltered upon the strings.
I had done this before.
Not once or twice or even hundreds of times, but thousands. I knew it with the same certainty I knew how to walk or breathe. This was not something new. This was not a talent discovered by accident beside a cold stream on a night that might have been my last.
This was a piece of myself. A piece I had lost.
The realization settled over me slowly and all at once, the way certain truths do—arriving gradually until suddenly they are simply there, fully formed and undeniable.
For so the last days, I had stumbled through my own life surrounded by fragments; missing years, missing names, missing pieces of myself that existed just beyond reach, close enough to sense but never to hold. Every discovery had felt foreign, like uncovering evidence of another person's life and being told it belonged to me.
This felt different.
This did not feel like a stranger.
This felt like me.
Before I could stop myself, I smiled. A genuine smile. The sort that arrives before you realize it is there, before you have decided to allow it.
My fingers continued moving effortlessly across the strings. My breathing adjusted instinctively to support the song. My back straightened, my shoulders relaxed and every part of me settled into place with the ease of something returning to where it had always belonged.
For the first time since waking aboard the nautiloid, I was not discovering something I had lost.
I was remembering who I had been.
And for one brief, precious moment, I was not lost. Not a woman carrying a parasite behind her eye and a lifetime of missing memories behind her smile.
I was simply a musician.
And somehow, despite everything, that felt more like myself than anything else.
Storm dreams very Durge dreams nearly everynight, red, bloody, full of screams, fear and violence. However, there's still parts of him in those dreams. Namely, his tendency to wish for death is often very present, and that comes from him, not the Urge. There's also fear and guilt, and those emotions are entirely his, too.
I wrote one of those for my Conflicts of the Mind fic, where Natavriel shares his dream via tadpole, so I'll just paste that here
He climbed, the cloak on his shoulders heavy, blood soaking the fabric a little more with each step.
"Saabi, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is the only way, now."
He didn't look at those he had left behind. Fear and despair were the only things he would find there, and he did not need any more of that. It was their blood dragging him down, he knew. Their blood, begging him to kneel under the weight.
Still, he climbed.
"This is the only way."
He couldn't stop now. He couldn't. Not after everything.
The steps under his feet were already crimson, an endless upward path paved with corpses, their blood mingling with that of the ones he had left behind. More, and more, the weight on his shoulders grew.
Still, he climbed.
The knife, firmly gripped in his hand, was cold. Blood would see to better that once more, soon enough.
A young tiefling woman stood in his way. And in, went the knife. The tumbling fall of her body barely slowed him down. Blood spilled, warm on his hands, just as he had wished. The weight grew.
And still, he climbed.
"This is the only way," he said to himself.
Two men watched him come. One of them, the young one, had shaken his hand, once. Or so he thought. And he'd wanted to deliver the boy. In, went the knife, doing just that. Bodies fell. The weight grew.
And he climbed.
The dragonborn was next. In, went the knife. Blood spilled. The weight grew.
There would be others. No matter. In, would go the knife. And still, he would climb.
This was the only way. The only way.
The first ones to die had been the lucky ones. Anything was better than to live in a world where he continued to exist.
"I'm sorry," he kept whispering, the words like a prayer on his lips.
The end of the climb was near. And there stood people that he recognised. People that, foolishly, he had come to know by name.
Gale. In, went the knife.
Lae'zel. In, went the knife.
Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart. In, and in, and in, went the knife.
Astarion. In, went the—
No. No, he didn't want to. He didn't want to. But this was the only way. He couldn't stop now.
In, went the knife. Blood coated those silver curls that so often glowed in the sun when Astarion fell, the colour matching his now lifeless ruby eyes.
Tav stood there, too. The last one still standing on the steps in front of him. And behind them, an altar where his own body laid unmoving. Waiting. At peace. Finally. The only way, this was the only way.
In, needed to go the knife.
Something fought for control. Instinctively, he fought back.
"This is my body," said Tav calmly, standing before him. Their mouth stayed shut. But it was their voice, in his mind. Their strength of will, fighting his own with a fierce desire to help that he could feel buzzing in his own bones. "Let me in."
He was them. Or, rather, they were him, in this moment. His steps halted. At his command, or at Tav's, neither of them could have been sure.
Such was the weight on his shoulders, if he stood still, he trembled under it. When he stopped fighting, Tav's body moved, closing the space between them both. Their fingers brushed his wrist, his skin slick with the blood of those people he knew. And those he didn't. And those he had forgotten. Mostly, those he had forgotten.
"Let go, love," they whispered.
He did. The knife fell. And so did he, crumbling under the weight.
Tav occasionally gives him herbs to block dreams, but it's not super effective on him, so after the first few times he stops taking them.
He does start to dream dreams that are entirely his own, little by little. The first time was when he started pining after Astarion, and that was a big suprise to him, to learn that he had the capacity to dream about something other that violence.
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